Chapter TWENTY-THREE

She felt strangely sick and queer, her head going round. What was wrong with her? She had slept till ten, rung for her coffee and drunk it before she had noticed anything amiss. Then, after reading her letters--one a note from Geoffrey’s sister, Elspeth Baxter, inviting her to spend a week with her at Fontainebleau--she had risen lazily to dress, only to discover an unexpected faintness combined with racking pains in her stomach.

Oh, well, it could not be serious. Yesterday she had eaten and drunk rather unwisely. Her thoughts flew to the poisonous, over-sweet concoction, falsely called orangeade, which she had imbibed at Tattenham Corner. Foolish to drink the stuff, only she had been so thirsty.

“I’ll take a starvation cure to-day,” she told herself, plying her hair-brush vigorously.

What about her lost flowers? Had Jeanne found them? If so she would instantly jump at the idea of collusion and perhaps make trouble. How annoying, at this crucial time!

Elspeth’s invitation.… How much she longed to accept it! She knew that Geoffrey would spend as much time as possible out there, and she thrilled at the prospect of rambles in the forest with him these warm, sunny days. If only she dared to go! But she must not think of it while things hung in the balance. Perhaps later on, with affairs satisfactorily settled--but they couldn’t be for some time yet. She did not even know what had come of the doctor’s interview with Jeanne.

She rose to go into the bathroom, then had to steady herself with a hand on the nearest chair. A wave of giddiness overtook her, thick beads of perspiration broke out all over her body.

Really, it was too stupid! Why, yesterday she had felt more than usually fit!

“I can’t, I won’t be ill!” she declared angrily, making a second movement to pick up her bath-towel. “I’ll dress and go out into the fresh air. All this is nonsense!”

The next moment she had collapsed across the bed, panting for breath and doubled up with pain like the stab of a knife. She tried to rise, but gave up in despair.

There she lay, uncovered in her thin _crêpe de Chine_ night-dress, helpless and weak as a baby, for what must have been twenty minutes, before she could summon strength to ring the bell. All but unconscious, she wondered dimly what could possibly be the cause of the alarming attack. Her skin burned, her mouth felt parched, while her body seemed strangely swollen. Appendicitis occurred to her. Never in her life had she given it a thought, but now all at once the disease seemed a dreadful reality.

She was too miserable when the door opened to feel surprised that it was Jeanne and not Berthe who answered the call. She could not even raise her head as she lay huddled and racked with agony, and was barely able to articulate.

“Jeanne--I am feeling dreadfully ill. I can’t imagine what it is.” She succumbed again, speechless with a terrific fit of cramp.

“_Ah, ah, mademoiselle! Vous êtes bien souffrante!_”

The voice came from far away. At the same time practised hands lifted her capably, placed her between the sheets, while dimly she heard something about a possible chill and the advisability of summoning the doctor. Then she was once more alone.

Whatever this was, it was no joking matter. She was shivering from head to foot, her teeth chattered like castanets, and for a little time it seemed as though she would lose consciousness.

Presently Jeanne returned with a hot-water bottle which she placed at her icy feet.

“Eduardo is telephoning to Dr. Girard,” she said. “I am afraid to give you any medicine, as I do not know what is wrong. Where are the pains?”

Catherine tried to show her. It was an unwelcome turn of events which had brought this woman to minister to her needs. She would far rather have had Berthe, but there was no help for it.

“In the stomach, is it? Ah!” There was a grunt and a faint shrug. “Ah, well, that looks bad, but perhaps it is nothing serious!”

Through half-closed eyes Catherine saw the maid straighten up and survey her with an appraising frown.

“A hot drink will do you no harm, and may bring some relief. Lie quite still, and I will prepare you a _tisane_.” She departed briskly on her errand.

At least, thought Catherine, the doctor will soon be here. Then in a momentary cessation of pain she recalled an additional reason for wanting to see him. She could now find out if he had settled matters satisfactorily. What a blessing if Jeanne had given in!

Ten minutes passed, then the maid returned to hold a steaming cup to her lips. She took a sip of the hot liquid only to cough and choke with a qualm of renewed nausea.

“What bitter stuff!” she murmured in disgust.

“Bitter? But no! It is simply _tilleul_. Sure mademoiselle has tasted it many times?”

“Never.”

She forced herself to drink, then fell back exhausted.

“That is better. Now rest, it will do you good.”

For a brief interval it seemed that Jeanne was right. A sort of numbness ensued during which she drifted into a half-doze. Then she was roused anew by horrible sickness and suffering worse than before. Mentally she resolved not to touch _tilleul_ again…

“Fancy,” remarked Jeanne, busily tidying the room. “We have been wondering why Dr. Girard failed to come yesterday. Now we learn that he has met with an accident--slipped on the parquet, and torn some ligaments in his leg. Poor man, he will not be able to go out for several days. However he is sending his assistant to see you.”

What bad luck! Nothing seemed to go smoothly. In the midst of her anguish the girl found time to question the complacent ring she detected in Jeanne’s voice. Did it mean that Girard had been stupid enough to betray some hint of their scheme?

So violent were the paroxysms now that she scarcely knew when Jeanne left her, nor was she able to speak to Berthe, who presently appeared, round-eyed and awed, to offer suggestions of brandy and mustard-plasters. She shook her head and with set teeth waited for the doctor, wondering if he would hurry her off to a hospital for an immediate operation. Even the thought of an anæsthetic was welcome in her present torture.

It was midday when the door opened to admit a plump, serious-looking young man, ushered in by Jeanne. He glanced at the patient’s white face, removed his gloves with deliberation, then turning his back on the bed engaged in a whispered colloquy with the maid. Catherine could not catch what they said, nor did she care, but she was aware of a brusque hardness in the assistant’s manner which would have roused antagonism if she had been less ill.

At length, as though satisfied, he motioned Jeanne outside, closed the door, and proceeded to make a brief examination, muttering to himself with an air of displeasure. Finally he sat down close to the bedside and leaned forward, solemnly confidential.

“And now, mademoiselle,” he began with a sort of accusing disapproval, “I want you to tell me precisely what it is you have taken, and how much.”

“Taken?” echoed Catherine in amazement. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, certainly,” he persisted. “I want to know what drug you have taken. Do not be afraid. I will not give you away.”

She stared at him mystified. What was the man driving at?

“But I haven’t taken anything. What do you mean?”

He uttered an abrupt exclamation, jerking his plump shoulders. She could not think why he seemed so annoyed with her.

“Mademoiselle, I beg of you, don’t attempt to deceive me! It is most foolish. If I am to help you, you must play fair with me. Now, once again--what medicine, what drug did you take last night? I insist upon knowing.”

Weak though she was, she felt bewilderment succumb to irritation, and roused herself to a more emphatic denial.

“I tell you, nothing whatever. I drank some rather horrid orangeade at a café last night, and I had two cocktails, one at lunch and one at dinner. But I haven’t taken any medicine, and I felt all right till after breakfast this morning.”

“And that is all, absolutely all?”

“Certainly. Why should I want to deceive you?”

By the half-veiled scorn in his eyes she could see that he only partly believed what she had said. An explosive sigh escaped him as he fixed his full eyes on the wall over her head, muttering to himself:

“_Ces jeunes filles--tellement stupides, tellement ignorantes!_”

Catching the indistinct words, she was stirred to a vague resentment. A flush mounted to her cheeks, but she forebore to argue.

“_Eh bien!_ If you are determined to keep silent, I must do what I can without your help.”

“I’m sorry you think I’m lying,” she said bluntly, “and I wish you would say what is in your mind. You believe I’ve taken a drug. Is it possible”--she hesitated, frowning incredulously--“is it possible you think I have been trying to kill myself?”

“Kill?” He gave vent to a short, ironic laugh which grated on her ear.

“No, mademoiselle, not that. Assuredly not! But if one tampers with dangerous medicines, no matter for what purpose, one runs the risk of committing suicide!”

She gave up trying to understand, and mastered her growing indignation. What a disagreeable young man! Then the idea occurred to her, only to be rejected, that perhaps he had got hold of this notion from his talk with Jeanne. There had been something odd in Jeanne’s manner, only how could the woman have any opinion one way or the other? There was no point in it.

He began to ask a great many questions, some of them intimate ones, the bearing of which she could dimly surmise. She answered him frankly enough, but with an inward sense of embarrassment. Then, as the consultation went on she saw his expression change, grow less cocksure, and finally take altogether another phase. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and still looking at her with searching eyes, led the inquiry in another direction.

“_Enfin_, mademoiselle, let us hear what you had to eat yesterday. Everything, please. Don’t leave out a single article of food.”

Thinking back carefully, she enumerated the items of the various menus. When she came to last night’s dinner he gave an exclamation of triumph.

“Oysters!” he cried. “The end of April! You have been poisoned by the oysters, there is little doubt of it. The trouble is gastric.”

She did not know why all at once he should appear both relieved and mollified. His brow cleared and he looked at her in quite a different way.

“Well, mademoiselle, first of all I must prescribe for you a large dose of an unpleasant remedy. I will give directions to have it prepared for you at once, with orange juice.”

He mentioned the name--_huile de ricine_. That was merely castor oil. She nodded, quite ready to believe that it was the oysters which had caused the mischief. As for the trouble being gastric, it had never entered her head that it could be anything else.

“I will call again this evening. Meantime you are to keep warm and eat nothing until the middle of the afternoon, when you may have a cup of tea. You English like your five o’clock, is it not?” he added, heavily jocose.

She smiled at him wanly. After all, he meant no harm.

Yet, thinking it over after he had gone she was again affronted by his disbelief and the severe cross-examination he had put her through. She was still dwelling upon these things when Berthe entered with the castor oil, and she could not help noticing that in the friendly cook’s eyes she was an object of interest and curiosity. Why should Berthe look at her like that? A moment later, while the door was temporarily ajar, she caught a scrap of whispered conversation, which explained it even while it increased her mystification.

“_Mais non! Tu crois?_” She heard Berthe gasp in astonishment.

“_Humph! J’en suis sûre_,” retorted Jeanne’s voice, contemptuously emphatic.

Whatever it was the maid was so sure about, it seemed certain, after all, that the doctor had taken his original cue from her.

After this she dozed from exhaustion, but at seven o’clock when the physician reappeared she was still in so much pain that it was necessary to administer an injection of morphia.